


Petrichor

by bluelionsbish



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: A self indulgent fic, Brotherhood, Budding Love, Childhood Friends, Childhood Trauma, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Spoilers, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Immortality, Light Angst, Mentioned Blue Lions Students (Fire Emblem), Nonbinary Character, sylvain is a ladies man for all the wrong reasons, unexplored love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 12:47:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21299696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluelionsbish/pseuds/bluelionsbish
Summary: Everyone should be sleeping. At least that's what you tell yourself as you make your way to the stables in the dead of night.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier & Miklan, Sylvain Jose Gautier & Original Character(s), Sylvain Jose Gautier/Original Female Character(s), Sylvain Jose Gautier/Original Male Character(s), Sylvain Jose Gautier/Reader
Comments: 21
Kudos: 114





	Petrichor

**Author's Note:**

> a totally self-indulgent drabble about immortal reader. also i refuse to have sylvain be perpetually labelled as a 2D ladies man. there's a lot more going on in his brain than that.  
anybody have the "no beta we die like glenn" motto on a shirt yet? it needs to be on a shirt.

There are a few perks to being immortal, one being your body requires less sleep than most to function. So there you are, awake in your room, in the midst of a warm summer's storm.

After marvelling at its intensity, you decide to go and check on the horses. They tended to be skittish; far from the war-trained steeds you were used to riding as a former mercenary, with their nerves being easily frayed.

It is late in the night and everyone is sleeping.

The stables stand out amongst the dark horizon, leering over you in an ominous shape, and you can hear the horses whinnying. They seem spooked by the cracks and peels of thunder, and the vibrant explosions of light. It is indeed a fierce storm.

Rain drenches you to your very core as you hurriedly creep past the stable doors. The horses are bucking in distress, eyes wide as they huff and swivel their heads towards you. The smell of stale hay and iron spurs wakens you further.

You enjoy this kind of weather. You find peace in the fresh earthy smell of the rain and in its sound. It had never bothered you as a child, and your love for the rainy season only grew as you got older. You knew there were few others who admired the frequent downpours as much as you did.

You hum an old lullaby as you strike at some flint, fire curling to life in the small lantern the stable boy keeps tucked away for you. You discard your cloak and your song grows in pitch; its words now long forgotten by mortal ears. It is laden with balming magic and soothes all who hear. It does wonders for calming infants and the wounded. You have used it often over the years.

It's a charming melody; sad in some ways and hopeful in others. The horses hush as you stroke along their manes and down their muzzles, cooing at them.

The door bangs open and you drop your feed bag at the unexpected sound. You look towards the entrance and watch as water rushes in. A tall figure struggles to close the door against the winds.

“Finally,” the figure groans, slamming the door shut and latching it. You wait for the person to become alert to your presence and the light your lantern exudes. When the figure does take notice, their shoulders go up in surprise. They turn around and crimson hair peeks out from under the hood.

“Sylvain?”

His eyes are rimmed red from lack of sleep, bags evident as he slips his hood off. You catch the slightest glimpse of unease before his expression is replaced with his usual charming smile.

“Can't sleep either, sweet cheeks?” He sends you a wink, “Stayed up too late thinking about me, huh?”

“I came to check on the horses,” you offer instead, ignoring his immediate flirtatious behaviour. He does a quick sweep of the stables, noting that the horses are, in fact, just fine despite the thundering of the world around them. Some rest while others eat hay. A particularly feisty mare snorts at him as he passes.

“So did I, actually,” he pauses and throws his hands behind his head, “looks like you've got things covered though.”

You nod and turn back to the horse you were feeding. His presence remains, though. He seems to hover by the door, a little too quiet despite his boisterous nature.

A flash of lightning illuminates him for a moment. A moment in which you are able to pick up the fear on his features when thunder rings out.

“You don't like storms?”

“Don't be silly,” he waves your statement off, “a real man isn't afraid of a little rain.”

You shrug your shoulders. Another slap of thunder has Sylvain instantly flinching, and you raise your brows.

“I-uh-okay, you got me. Never been a big fan of this kind of weather, if I'm being honest.”

“Most aren't,” you placate, stroking the mare's flank.

“You don't seem too bothered.”

“I like the rain,” you tell him, sending him a small smile. He looks at you for a moment.

But then lightning dances in the sky again, and he's inching towards you until his fingers are buried in the mare's mane, next to yours.

“You don't just not like it,” you muse, “it frightens you?” You mean no offence, but wince when Sylvain huffs. Perhaps his ego was more fragile than you had imagined.

So you continue, “Did you really come here to check on the horses?”

He snatches up the change in subject, “Yeah. I mean, I figured if I'm not going to sleep, I might as well make myself useful. I like being in the stables anyway.” Sylvain puts on a valiant show, but despite his efforts, you can see the exhaustion cling to him.

“Sylvain?”

He hums, “Yes, gorgeous?”

“You should try to get some rest. I can see how tired you are.”

Evidently, he's tickled pink by your concern, and expresses as much. You usher him to the bundle of hay next to you, sighing as you do so, ensuring he's away from the shuttered windows and the howling of the night rains.

He suddenly pulls you by the hand and laughs at your scandalized expression as you tumble to sit beside him.

“Resting's not much fun when you're the only one doing it,” he says after a beat and smirks, “though I did enjoy the view.” Your ass and hips had been on full display when you bent over to retrieve the discarded oat bag.

You roll your eyes, but stay seated. He's not touching you anymore, but leans back against the hay. His eyes flutter as if they beg to be closed, but he can't bring himself to shut them.

And then you thought about it. This was the third day in a row it had rained.

“Have you slept at all?”

“Er, not much, no. But don't worry that pretty little head of yours, I'll catch up on it in class tomorrow. Hanneman's doing a seminar.”

This makes you chuckle. Hanneman and his magic lectures. Never quite as eventful as the students hope.

You make a small noise of realization in the back of your throat. Magic, huh? You feel the tingling sensation of the balming song in your palms and pull Sylvain closer to you. Maybe...

His eyes go wide, “Whoa there kitten, moving a little fast, aren't we?”

You scoff, “Don't get any funny ideas. I'm just trying to help you get some sleep.”

His brows shot up, “Oh ho, I know plenty of things we could do that would tire me--”

“Don't be an idiot,” you hiss, cheeks flaming.

He laughs disarmingly, hands up in surrender, “Okay, okay, point taken.”

He's closer to you now than anyone has ever really been. You had never taken much notice of another human being up close. You liked to keep it that way, having watched many of your friends die over the course of the years you've been alive. The distance you put between yourself and other humans is essential if you don't want your heart to be broken over and over again.

But there is something about the auburn in his eyelashes, and the scar on his nose, that makes you want to stare at him forever.

He leans into you without a word, letting you card your fingers through his hair. Maybe it's how pitiful he looks, or maybe it's the way he glances up at you, full of curiosity and wonder, that draws you in. You had always been a sucker for those in need.

And right now, Sylvain needs you.

“Are you comfortable?”

He breathes out an almost blissful sigh, “In your arms? Absolutely.”

You resist the urge to kick him; he can be so damn _annoying_. But the bags under his eyes are terribly dark, so dark you'd have guessed Felix gave him matching black eyes again.

Sylvain relaxes as you reposition yourself, leaning against the hay with your legs curled up and him cradled in your grasp. His head rests against your chest.

Already his eyes are closing.

And you sing.

His eyes open briefly in surprise, but they quickly droop under the effects of the lullaby. Sylvain is practically goo in your hands; melted by words he can't comprehend but can somehow understand.

“Got a few secrets, huh,” he murmurs, fingers running along your wrists, “who knew you had a beautiful voice to match that beautiful face of yours.” You merely stroke his hair and hum a few more bars.

The two of you have never been particularly close, but you can't deny the pull he has on you. It was probably due, in part, to the fact you could see through his facade. A lot of his flowery language and skirt chasing was a bold front. Inside, he was very much a lonely child. In pain and misunderstood.

He reminded you of, well, you. Loneliness was a familiar companion as an immortal.

“Have I ever told you about the time my brother threw me down a well a left me there?" he asks blearily. 

You had heard bits and pieces of this tale from Ingrid and Felix. You also knew from your brief encounter with Miklan, when your class had been tasked with retrieving the Gautier relic, that he was an asshole who had tried to kill Sylvain on more than one occasion.

Your fingers glide through his hair. It's softer than you imagined.

“I was stuck,” he yawns “in that well for two days before Felix found me,” another yawn, “it had rained overnight. And the echoes...”

He drifts off to sleep for a moment before waking up groggily, still trying to fight his drowsiness. Another flash of lightning has him stirring in your arms.

“The echoes,” he slurs, “from the thunder, in the well,” he blinks slowly, “sounded like monsters. Hated storms ever since. Stupid, right?”

You didn't think so.

He tries to chuckle but it comes out as a muted gasp. Perhaps it was more than the storm that was keeping Sylvain from sleep. It hadn't been long since Miklan...since they had been told to kill his brother.

_Eliminate him_, the church had said, _keep it quiet_.

Miklan had never been a good brother, but Sylvain still mourned the loss of what could have been, had crests and duty not split his family apart.

You hold him closely, counting the freckles under his eyes. There's a universe in his gaze, soft and strangely unguarded. _This _is the real Sylvain.

“Everything will be okay,” you whisper to him softly, letting your fingers trace the contours of his face. He settles finally, beneath your touch. You begin to sing again.

There's a moment of quiet as he drifts off to sleep. The only thing you can hear are your shared heartbeats. The storm, rumbling in the distance, seems so very far away.

You look down at Sylvain, eyes softening, “Everything willbe okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> okay so it was a totally self-indulgent drabble about immortal reader who sings for sylvain. so shoot me lmao  
partly inspired by a lullaby i was taught as a child.
> 
> and hey, comments keep author fed. toss her a cookie from time to time, maybe? ;;;;;;


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